


Nightly Lines

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [53]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Dancing, M/M, headcanons galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:07:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21902725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: A brief night reprieve in the Constant was always appreciated. Such times didn't come around often, after all.
Relationships: Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Series: DS Extras [53]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443
Comments: 3
Kudos: 42





	Nightly Lines

There were a few whiny complaints about going to bed, but it was late and Wilson couldn't just let Webber stay awake any longer than they already have. Letting the kid have a bit of hot chocolate had been near too much, but their excited sugar rush had been on a downward curve by the time Wilson had started cleaning up and sent them to their tent.

"But we're not really all that tired Mister Wilson-" Webbers mandibles and fangs opened up into a twitchy yawn, extra limbs curling as their fur puffed up before they snapped their jaw near closed once more. They scrubbed at their eyes, claws careful as they half stumbled, half were led to their tent.

"Night fell hours ago, Webber; it's time for you to go to sleep." Wilson shook his head as the child warbled a low whistle, toothy mouth opening as all their eyes blinked out of sync, and he continued talking as to stop them from interrupting. "No buts, it's bedtime."

Webber gave him a spider frown, all curved chitin and spiky limbs, before they glanced behind him and raised their voice in a spidery whistle that near pierced his eardrums.

"Mister Maxwell, do we have to go to bed?"

"Yes, Webber dear. If Higgsbury says it's bedtime for you, then it is bedtime."

Wilson looked over as well, watched as Maxwell occupied himself with the Codex Umbra, idly flipping the pages, pitch black eyes skimming over them without much focus.

"Aww, but we don't wanna go to bed."

Wilsom set a dull clawed hand on their bristly shoulder, guiding them with firm steps to their tent. He had to bite down the 'too bad, so sad' response on the tip of his tongue, but Webber yawned another clicking yawn, scratching the fur of their face and chirping quietly to themself, and it was enough for him to keep his mouth shut.

If someone back at the main camp knew he gave the kid cocoa right when night was falling then he'd probably have a harsh scolding; Wickerbottom was a firm believer in set in stone bedtimes, and all that sugar had really gotten into Webbers system.

In Wilsons defense, they _were_ celebrating. He had completed a prototype, a variant of the lightbulb lantern, and it had worked spectacularly!

Webber had quite liked the new lantern, in all its purple and lavender hues, the arcs of electric light inside the glass case and the way it made all of their fur poof up. It was remarkable, what a different source of energy could afford them, and powered by a combination mixture of solar and underground light plants it opened up a whole variety of options for him to focus upon in these next coming months. Winter was harsh, but there was a lot of time to think, especially with more hands on deck to help hunt and take care of camp chores.

Soon enough, Wilson will pack up his autumn base and lead the two back to the main camp, near to the portal and made of more solid stuff. It was there they'd tough out the snow laden winter with the others, but for now they were all free to do as they pleased.

This included the bad decision to give Webber a whole mug of hot chocolate. It was a gift from last night's creeping shadows, left behind with a few wrapped presents that he had stowed away for a later date, and Wilson had thought the kid could handle the sugar rush.

He had been proven rather wrong in that respect. Webber had bounced and leapt the whole night away, chattering both men's ears off and giggling about this and that. 

Still, the crash had finally quieted them a bit. With Webber yawning up a storm it certainly was time for sleep for the lot of them.

"Goodnight, Webber." Wilson lifted up the tents flap door, waited as the spider child crawled in, all their eyes glowing faintly in the dark as firelight reflected off them. "Don't let the bed bugs bite."

Webber clicked a spidery tired reply, scratching at their face as their limbs stretched, but they did reach out a moment and wiggled their claws to him, a low mumbly request that Wilson gladly obliged with a swift goodnight kiss to their bristly forehead. For a moment Webber almost looked as if they were finally going to turn in for the night, but then their eyes blinked over across the firepit and they gurgled another whiny noise.

The sugar crash exhaustion must be hitting hard, since all they did was wave their claws and reach out, but Wilson hid the sigh and instead called behind his shoulder.

"Someone wants a goodnight hug, Maxwell."

The older man eyed them both from over his book, scowling, but he got up with a creaking huff and Wilson backed off to let the man lean over and say goodnight to the spider child.

Webbers limbs all twitched as they bumped foreheads, the other mans face briefly going soft as he muttered a quiet "Goodnight", and they got the half hug they usually got, claws wrapping around Maxwells arm as they chirped spidery sound, and then with that the older man pulled away and Webber clambered back into their tent, another yawn that sent them off to bed. 

Closing up the tent securely, Wilson watched as his companion shuffled back over to his seat, one he hasn't left near at all tonight. Wilson had been working on his invention all day, so that had left the other two to their own devices. Webber had went to play with the other spiders in the nearby forest, and perhaps even Wendy if they had caught sight of her, while Maxwell had mostly spent his time pouring over the Codex.

Wilson vaguely recalled seeing him get up to converse with the Shadow Manipulator, obviously working on _something_ , and then had fiddled with the rabbits still set in Chesters mouth, but otherwise the engineering work had been his main focus. Trying to figure out how to configure the lanterns way of making light to run somewhat like the rainometer, taking in the environment and then reacting in a favorable way, was a bigger hurdle then he had thought it would be. Maxwell was always commenting on how useless the wooden rain machine was, so hopefully this lantern turned out to be more useful.

Which reminded him, Wilson turning away from the tents and going over to the still glowing lantern itself. Brief arcs of harmless lightening flicked about its glass surface, the fuzzy light insides reacting to his presence and gathering in his direction, and it made the hairs on his neck stand up but it was only the faintest bit warm, even after being on so long. It was not as bright as earlier tonight, but Webber had spent ages playing with the light. It wasn't truly reliable just yet, but Wilson planned to have a talk with Winona about extending its light life. Perhaps the woman knew more on this sort of newish technology. 

Flicking off the switch, Wilson went about putting it away, rolling up some of the longer wires and the chunky batteries it relied upon. It wasn't streamlined, and he wanted it to be portable enough, but it at least did what a prototype was supposed to do.

It showed that his idea _can_ be done, at the very least. It was viable, and Wilson wanted to look into it.

Camp was a bit of a mess at the moment; his tools were still where he had left them after flipping the switch, strewn about near to the alchemy machine and all over the crooked wooden tool table, and the crockpot needed to be cleaned and dinner leftovers taken care of, and then there was the few toys that Webber had left behind in their sugar rushed excitement. Wilson wandered over to some of the hanging decorations, lights that he had been testing for the upcoming Winter's Feast, and as he clicked them all off and rolled the wires up he glanced back behind him, voice quiet as to not disturb Webbers sleep.

"Hey, do you mind giving me a hand with cleaning up?"

Maxwell stayed where he was on the log bench, flipping through his book by firelight, legs crossed and hardly giving him a glance. The lack of response made Wilson huff, taking a breath just to start harping on not getting help, when with a wave of his hand and a low, quiet few Latin words Maxwells flickering shadow twitched, smoothly curving over the grass and dirt before finally manifesting before him in a near perfect copy.

While the older man returned to his reading, relaxing back down with a silent sigh, Wilson raised his eyebrow as the shadow tilted its head in his direction.

"That...wasn't what I meant. Isn't that a little unnecessary?"

"If you don't want the help I have to offer, then don't bother me about it." The shadow moved stiffly about, shuffling in a turn to face Wilson, its hands still by its sides. There was a moment where it seemed to watch him, Wilson staring back, before Maxwells snarl broke him out of it. "Do you want me to help or not? I'd rather not have to waste the fuel-"

"Alright alright, fine!" Wilson waved the thing over, the stiff way it moved as it walked silent, the sheen of its oily shadow swirling and glistening dark in the firelight. "Just no swords, Maxwell, and don't summon anymore of them."

Maxwell grumbled to himself, once more buried into his book, and the sight made Wilson frown but he couldn't really put up an argument about it. The shadow sidled up to his side, and he couldn't just decline what the old man was up to doing at the moment.

As he went about continuing to tidy the clone dogged his heels, his directing hand and commands immediately followed with shadows twisting and curling in that foggy shape as he went. The silence was only broken by the fires crackling, bright flames fed every once in awhile as Maxwell tended to the light, and finally Wilson decided to break that silence, unnerved by the shadow at his back.

"You weren't really involved in our little celebration, Maxwell." Wilson stashed away another roll of Winter's Feast lights, pausing to consider the chipped glass of a cracked yellow one before setting it on the chest lid and fumbling with unscrewing it out. 

"I do not think a newly colored lantern is much to celebrate, pal."

"Webber wanted to dance with you earlier." Wilson glanced over to see the man go stiff a moment before untensing, nose buried in his book and not acknowledging anything else around him. The shadow clone brushed on by, off to the crockpot as it scraped and scrubbed any food remains inside, leftovers safely put away in the ice box. "And it's not just the color that's important; it can run off of the sun's light energy, store it for late at night."

Wilson considered the silence a moment, stowing the broken bulb into one of his pockets before putting away the rest of the lights.

"Also, it's purple."

"Indeed, it is." Maxwell agreed, tone shifting minutely, a certain amount of emotion rising up underneath his usual facade. "I don't believe that was done with anyone in mind, however."

"Not at all!" Wilson answered back cheerily, a brief grin on his face as he tucked a few of Webbers more prized toys away, the rocket ship and tangled yarn ball, the little wooden horse and its secret compartment. After that he went to his workbench, going about organizing and putting away each and every piece with critical eyes.

The silence now was a bit more companionable, and if Wilson had turned a quick glance back he'd see a near enough expression on Maxwells face that could almost be called a smile even.

As it was, the shadow instead hovered by him, taking whatever he gave it and carefully putting each piece away in their designated, chaotic mess of spots he had for them. Beneath the crackling of the flames and the low ambience of insects and the night surrounding them, Wilson could vaguely hear its whispers.

Quiet muffled mumbles, gibberish even, akin to Abigails haunting whispers and the faint vibration in the air when Lucy was speaking, the impression of voice all but unheard except when faced with proximity.

Little words, blips of sentences he could parse rose from within its presence, hesitant and slow and very, very near silent. Most seemed to be Latin, a low sentence from time to time trailing into obscure mumbles, but every once in awhile it was clear words that broke through, hummed in the shadows subconscious presence.

His name was the most often that he heard, quiet like and whispered all too low. Near silent enough to not cause him too much paranoia, yet a constant awareness of the shadows attentions.

 _Wilson_ , it whispered, and he turned and gave it another tool to put away.

Eventually the chaos of his work table was more manageable now, and more organized to his eyes. Setting the broken light down next to a few frazzled wires and shards of different colored glass, Wilson finally pulled away to have a look about the campsite, the shadow adjusting a few of the larger tools to be in very carefully made straight lines.

It didn't seem fond of his haphazard organization skills, instead minutely righting anything crooked. Wilson rolled his eyes and let it be, satisfied by how tidy everything was once more. With the lantern stowed in one of his personal science chests, the night chores were complete.

The shadow hummed behind him, content, and with that Wilson wandered over to the fire, a quick pat to Chester's snoring head before sitting down, opposite to the shadows actual owner.

Maxwell briefly glanced up at him, eyes squinted and distracted before turning back to his book, and Wilson heaved a sigh as he finally relaxed.

Webber had been a handful tonight, though he didn't regret it. Even as spidery as they were the child was a light in his life and Wilson had enjoyed sharing something he had made with them. He didn't have much experience with kids, but Webber was enamored with the sciences that Wilson worked on and had been completely sucked into playing with the lantern.

Honestly, they were more sort of testing it out for him, but it was a bonus that doing so made them happy. Something about the light show seemed to remind them of older memories, so they had whistled a song reminiscent to 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star' and had danced about, grabbing Wilson's own clawed hands and having him spin around with them. 

It was always a good thing, hearing a child's laughter in the Constant. It meant things were going well, and it honestly made Wilson feel better about the future. Winter will always be hard, but Webber and all the others were here and there would always still be hope.

Maxwell had been quiet all evening, only vaguely conversing with Webber. He had smiled, once or twice at the very least, and Wilson didn't worry himself on it. The old man quieted down a bit in the fall, so Wilson mostly attributed it to the cold and let it be. Once it hit spring Maxwell would be a lot more grumpier, a lot more damp with the humidity, but much more talkative too.

A bit meaner as well, especially in the height of summer. Wilson closed his eyes, the warmth of the fire and its woody smoke a comforting, familiar source, and he tried to enjoy the silence.

And then there was the faintest of sounds, movement, and Wilson opened his eyes to see the shadow clone sitting beside him.

He glanced over to Maxwell, but the man seemed to be ignoring him completely, nose buried in his book and the wrinkles of his brow drawn down low. Whatever this was to be, Maxwell seemed to not want to be paid attention to.

Puppet Master behind the puppet, after all.

Turning back, Wilson eyed the doppelganger critically, watching its shadowy make twist and swirl about inside itself, clouds of murky black and dark, too dark purple merging and curling this way and that. It took a moment, to notice its posture, to notice the shift in its presence.

Its murky shadow hands were folded in its lap, only the faintest of impressions to the molded shadow, one leg crossed over the other, watching him with its featureless face, only the slightest tilt downward of its head showing it was paying attention.

Its whispers were back, quiet words, soft and yet strained and overlapped in the tide of shadow slithering sound, _carissime, venustus, per caputque pedesque, mirificus,_ and again, his name interspaced between hushed whispers, _Wilson._

Wilson watched it idly, hand on his chin, and ignored most of what it spoke. He knew what some of it said, translated in his head at times, he just didn't acknowledge it.

Maxwell didn't either, sitting alone across from him and the fire and trying to look as if he was focusing wholeheartedly on his tome. If Wilson remembered correctly, the old man had explained that it helped with the 'double vision'. 

Finally he spoke up, cutting off its near constant stream of mumbles as it watched him; the usual discomfort of being watched by shadows was near nonexistent when he knew whose shadow it was that did the watching.

"And what do you want?" Wilson waited a tik, watched it tilt its head as if in confusion, the swirling clouds and blots of its skin shining like frothy oil from the firelight. 

The shadow paused, tapping its shadowy fingers against the bark in silent thoughtfulness, leg still crossed and looking almost relaxed even, body language so much more fluid to read than Maxwell himself.

Maxwell was stiff, upright, held himself to an angle that gave off the airs of a higher man. Sometimes his back would bend, shoulders draw forward, and then it seemed as if age had caught up with him, paranoia twisting his features and that snarly, antagonizing tone would show through more often, overriding his near dramatic stoicness.

And then, even that fell away when he was delighted, when he found something amusing enough to actually laugh, or like when in the gladiatorial arena, a manic excitable energy that even his near blindness couldn't mellow, nor stop him from sadistically taking down behemoth creatures with burning magic and absolute glee. Wilson had to stuff his glowing spirit into his corpse more times than he'd like to count, get the old man to his feet and watch him fight alongside the others and yet…

It seemed more as if Maxwell had been reliving his near god like abilities of the far back days, not fight for all of their survival in a hellfire of pigmen and their abominable gladiators.

At times there was instead a heavy exhaustion that replaced it all, a dullness that held Maxwell in its grip, that seemed to be brought upon by the shadows. It was a trait, an attitude often times shared by the man's niece, one that Wilson knew very little of and tried to not touch upon often. 

It wasn't common enough to see the man in a more natural state, in a way that did not give off the feeling that he was still _acting_ the part, or being _acted_ upon. The shadow clone in comparison, as it idly fiddled with its hands and tapped its foot, loose and at ease in his presence, was a more believable, if a bit too free of consequence, presence somehow.

Eventually it gave him a little shrug, a tilt of its head and its whispers dropping to near incomprehensible gibberish, only faint impressions of his name now as it wiggled a hand in an odd, unreadable gesture.

"I find it hard to believe you want nothing from me." The shadow shook its head at his words, somehow giving off the feeling of genuine truthfulness, or at least seeming to try being truthful. "Then why are you sitting here, staring at me?"

That seemed to fluster it, its clawed fingers wiggling as it wringed its hands, looking up and away for a moment, the storm clouds of its insides swirling glistening oil, dark and even darker lavender glints, streaks of shadow fog and tar. It gave him another shrug, this time even weaker, more nervous than the last, giving a wholly different impression from the old man still sitting across from them.

Wilson eyed him a moment, Maxwells shoulders drawn up and still looking as if he was ignoring them, focused only on his book. 

What was the man up to?

With a last look Wilson turned his attention back to the shadow doppelganger, its face watching him almost intently, but when it was caught it suddenly leaned back a bit, looking away as the dark clouds of its shadows billowed upwards, darkness spreading thick about its throat and face. It seemed almost...embarrassed?

It appeared anxious now, hands fidgeting and yet still sneaking little glances at him, diminished from the straight backed, obedient mass of shadow it had been at first.

Its whispers were garbled, akin to Abigails slow inhales and exhales of words, layered with unknowable voices all atop each other, and yet, still, his name rose like a bubble through it all.

It saw him staring at it, and seemed to fumble, the nervousness now very noticeable as it waved its hands, its gibberish whispers rising and falling as if trying to find an excuse to tell.

Wilson had no idea what it was really trying to get across, but its actions were clear enough to know what it _didn't_ want. 

He heaved a sigh, rubbing a hand over his stubble a moment and idly wondering if it would grow fast enough for winter, eyes settling to the crackling fire and it's hot depths, blues and greens faint in the mix of orange reds and yellows. When he looked back, the shadow clone had minutely scooted a bit closer, just a few inches, hands on its crossed knee and tapping its foot nervously in the dirt grass.

The posture was so jarringly different from Maxwell's little serious act that seeing his form do so, even made of complete solid shadows, sent a hint of amusement to settle in Wilsons chest.

"What are you doing, you silly man?"

That made Maxwell himself actually twitch a moment, shoulders raising high and very obviously hiding his face in his book now. The fire prevented Wilson from really seeing his companion, but the shadow by his side was giddy, uncrossing its legs and flapping its hands in odd gestures before calming down.

It was a little bit astounding, what a few words could do to the man. It took Wilson aback as well, at the sheer unhindered amount of expression the clone was showing, not at all trying to mask or hide away this reaction of feeling. Even in all its nervous movements, even as careful as it moved showing that it was indeed being puppeteered, it was more as if a subconscious thought, not the forcefulness of playing a part in a theatrical act.

In the back of his mind, Wilson acknowledged that it seemed to make the clone somehow...younger feeling. As his mind turned and the flustered shadow tried once more to control itself, a small nudge of thought rose in the back of his mind.

Perhaps this had been a younger Maxwell, once, his mind supplied, and Wilson carefully, solemnly shut that thought away.

Then, suddenly, as if taking a deep breath and preparing itself, the clone hopped to its feet, hands curled at its sides and looking as if trying to gather its courage. Maxwell across from them had slunk down, not having turned a page in ages but still hiding his face, and Wilson watched the shadow as it looked down at him, a sideways near enough smile on his face.

This felt almost...almost fun, in a way. The shadow reacted in ways Maxwell near never did, and not all at once either; it was a nice change of pace.

Then the shadow did an awkward, almost missed bow, arm gesturing towards him with palm up, it's whispers hushing, as if holding its breath.

Wilson stared at it a second, before a bemused expression fell upon his face.

"Are you offering me a dance when you turned down poor Webber?"

The shadow raised its head up, foggy smoke twirling and curling as if in nervous skittishness, but before its hand could falter Wilson had already stood up and taken its offer.

He was in a good mood, and tonight so far has been quite pleasant. If Maxwell suddenly had a change of heart, then Wilson wasn't going to look the gift horse in the mouth.

The shadow hummed at him, pleased and whispering soft words, rumbled Latin sentences strung with too many near silent voices speaking at once, his name drifting here and there as both afterthought and focus. It did seem more hesitant now, the swirling black fuel twisting and churning in clouds inside itself, but it's nervousness somehow made it more likeable, faceless as it was.

"Oh, how can I possibly say no?" Sarcasm laced heavy in his voice, but he was more amused than anything else. Its slightly slick hands, that frothy filmed feeling of its hand on his own, buzzing light numbness but not the pins and needles the true shadows of Them caused. Odd, but for once Wilson could have sworn that the thing was actually _warm_.

It hesitated as he stepped up to it, ignoring its silent owner as Wilson waited for the shadow to make the first move. As it hovered its other hand close he did speak up, idly watching the spotting and streaks of oily shadow roll the surface of its form.

"You know I'm not particularly fond of dancing."

It was more that he didn't quite know how to, but it did make the shadow reconsider before adjusting its free grip to his waist, still firm about his own clawed hand as he also adjusted to lay his other hand upon its shoulder. Maxwell himself was not the best dancer by far either, but he knew his steps and was ever careful of his feet.

In the past the old man had gotten it into his head to try and teach Wendy what he knew. The venture hadn't looked as if it would go badly, but then Wickerbottom had attended as audience and had outwardly remarked on Maxwells form, questioning his stance and how he moved in front of everybody. She had probably thought the criticism would have been well received, but the whole thing was not a lesson, just for fun.

That was what Wilson ended up explaining to her, with her being left confused when the old man had stormed off in what was probably mortifying embarrassment. Webber had gone to comfort Wendy, but all the girl had voiced was that she had no interest in such things and honestly just couldn't care enough, so the dancing was not continued.

Wilson had stumbled upon an apology of Wickerbottom's as she spoke to Maxwell, listening in unseen as the old woman had apologized for her comments, saying she had said such without the prior knowledge that Maxwell had been taught in that specific way when he had been younger. The two thankfully seemed to come to terms, but with Wendy showing no more interest it wasn't an often sight anymore.

So he only vaguely at best remembered how Maxwell had done his turns and rotations, only that it had been exceedingly smooth and not usually taking lead.

The shadow in comparison, however, was much, much more careful, narrowly avoiding Wilson's own feet as he tripped and stumbled on specks of grass every once in awhile. He didn't like to think he was a clumsy person, but any sort of dancing outside of Webbers bouncing spins was a bit ahead of him sometimes.

Practice made perfect, but Wilson was just not the sort of person to want to dance. Still, the shadow lead in sharp, easy turns, sticking close to the firelight and not deterring much, and it hummed and was slow enough for Wilson's feet to keep up.

There was no music of course, and no awake Webber to sing spidery lullabies, but even only the fires light crackles and the soft sounds of night, the low rumble of the shadow as it watched him, guided him about in its own way, seemed to lend a calm air to the experience.

The Constant didn't give many moments to just...stop, for awhile. This space of time where Maxwell's shadow clone held to him in buzzing static whispers, their steps slow and methodical in the grass, its swirling foggy face oily and near colorful in the lights reflections, it was a very rare occasion.

 _Wilson_ , it whispered to him, its shadow numbing hand almost warm somehow, laced together with his claws, and Wilson cocked his head and gave it a lopsided smile, a lighter feeling rising in his chest.

Funny to think, but he was truly enjoying himself. For all of Maxwell's put upon airs and drama, it was the simplest of things that Wilson found himself appreciating.

Every once in awhile they'd sway nearer to the fire, and he'd get the briefest of glimpses of the puppeteer, the firelight flickering and crackling in contentment and bathing the camp in warm colors. There was the shine of the old man's odd eyes, pitch black and reflective, and he wasn't hiding in his book any longer.

The shadow clone hummed adoringly, held to him close as it shuffled their little dance along, and across the fire Maxwell watched with an expression of utter fondness.

It was fun, as it tilted its head, looked upon him facelessly and so closely, its warm buzzing hand in his own and humming Latin words of endearment and affection, his name laced between each and every one, a mantra of sorts. Once upon a time, Wilson might have even called it flattering really.

For now, he let it be. His mood was still unspoiled, and if the shadow clone wanted to whisper such things to him while it gave him a dance then he'd let it; there was no harm in enjoying each others company.

A brief look up showed the Constants ever changing night sky, stars of alien constellations brought upon the world in the change of rulership, and the bright spots of light up there brought a comforting air to the experience. Wilson vaguely still remembered that never ending void of long times before, especially deep in his nightmares, but this new Constant was always outdoing itself nowadays.

All these changes, all these new moments, and even through it all Maxwell seemed to still adore him. A constant that never faltered.

Unfortunate, really.

The shadow quietly turned them about, steps slowing, and then it carefully led him in a little spin, arm held out as Wilson obliged out of sheer amusement, but then it…

It caught him up and dipped low, faceless and all too close, whispers quieted as its shadow form hummed, oily sheen lavender and garnished with the flames light, and Wilson stared up at it and spoke before it could do anything it would regret.

"Don't, Maxwell." 

The use of his name made the clone stiffen up, still holding him up from the grass, still dipped low in too much implied intimacy, the swirls of its fuel insides glowing dark and almost, almost beautiful.

And then it stiffly swung him back upright, letting go and pulling away with solid, stiff movements, its loose posture once more a form of obedience and little else.

Wilson brushed himself off, adjusted his vest and then ran his clawed hands through his hair, taking longer than he needed to finally raise his gaze and look to his companion.

Maxwell had already gotten up, eyes having lost that shiny quality now as he avoiding making eye contact, instead stuffing the Codex away in his suit. A few steps around the fire and the older man stood before his own shadow, looking it upon its faceless face, seeming to ignore Wilson as he stood nearby.

"My apologise, Higgsbury." The air hummed for a moment, a new jarring movement as shadows coiled and formed into a much sharper, negative form. The shadow sword whispered its own words, unheard by Wilson as Maxwell held it, and with a swift, trained motion its blade snicker-snacked through the air and parted the clones shadowy form, slicing foggy smoke through the low of its neck and up through its very throat.

There was the slightest hiss, of exhaled air and subconscious whispers fading into stillness, and then the form wobbled and slid and splashed with frothy oil and steaming smoke into the grass. Wilson watched as Maxwell bent down and scooped up some of the smoking remains, the fuel oily and coiling, clinging to the mans gloved hands, before it was stowed away in another pocket of the old man's suit jacket.

"It got away from me." The excuse was stiff, unpleasant sounding and almost as if spat out, and Maxwell still didn't look at him, face dropping into a distant, unreadable expression. "It will not happen again."

"...It's fine." His own answer was just as badly received, but he had the decency to look away when Maxwell flinched, clearly not believing him whatsoever. "I…I should probably head to bed."

The other man nodded, and even as Wilson tried to make eye contact, something too similar to guilt filling his chest even as he pushed it away in his own self assuredness, he just couldn't get those pitch black eyes to look at him.

If he didn't know better, he'd think Maxwell was displeased, angry at him; but Wilson did know better, and even still it ate him up knowing the truth. 

"...Do you want to-"

"I will take watch tonight." Maxwell had been looking to his hands, the faintest impression of the fuel stained gloves as he rubbed his fingers together, but then he suddenly swung away, turning and going back to his previous spot. "I do not require any of your assistance, pal, so go sleep."

Wilson hovered, watched across from the fire as the older man sat back down, the slightest snarl of pain as he huffed and creaked back upon the log bench. There was a certain damper to the air now, clicking his claws together in abstract nervousness, but then Wilson made himself take in a deep breath of air and get a hold of himself.

It wasn't his fault, he reminded himself. It was important for him to remember that.

Still, heading off to bed and leaving the night to end like this wasn't...wasn't all in good faith. He could at least try to end it on a better note.

Not in a way that he was sure Maxwell wished for, but it was what Wilson was more willing to do. He had his boundaries, and he'd not allow anyone to cross them, not anymore. This was his decision, way back when, and he stuck to it even now.

With that in mind, Wilson slowly wandered around the fire, as if to head to his tent, directly across from Webbers and with the alchemy machine centered right next to it. He didn't shuffle his feet, side eyeing Maxwell as he passed by, noting how the man stared into the fire and stubbornly ignored him. 

Before he could really head to his tent, however, Wilson turned on his heel to face the older man's hunched back, a near silent sigh escaping through his teeth. 

It wasn't his fault, Wilson reminded himself once again, and he gently laid his claws down upon his companions bony back.

Maxwell stiffened up near instantly, surprised and unprepared, but he didn't speak a word in response, stubbornly holding his tongue still. With his dulled claws, Wilson gently started to press and rub his fingers and knuckles against the man's spine, acknowledging his own inexperience yet knowing the both of them would take comfort in the touch. It wasn't often that he was the one to initiate contact, after all, and even as adamant as he was Maxwell slowly started to untense, his shoulders dropping and back straightening ever so slightly.

With the suit on Wilson couldn't be much help, but his dull claws still went the motions, careful to not give the impression of grabbing as he brushed the back of the older man's neck, sliding through thin hair before going back to focus on stiff shoulders, the curvature of a too stiff upper spine. Maxwell had good posture at the best of times, but otherwise Wilson has watched as more time passed, as age caught up and bent the old man down a bit more each time. Maxwell's natural paranoia seemed to make matters worse, and the aching Wilson knew he suffered from was steadily getting more prevalent the longer Maxwell survived out here.

He was not trained in massage therapy, no knowledge of that whatsoever, so Wilson stuck with just the touch and faint pressure he could give to the older man, slowing when he finally heard Maxwell heave a defeated sigh, heavy and held in for far too long.

He did hesitate, a moment as his hands stilled upon bony shoulders, looser than they were a few minutes earlier, and then Wilson briefly leaned forward to press his nose to the back of the other man's neck, breath in slow and calm for a moment as his eyes half closed.

It _was_ someone's fault, here, but Wilson wasn't the right person to pass that judgement. He was biased, as was Maxwell, and he didn't have a clue on who could make that decision in the end. What was important was that he wasn't the person to ask when it came to justice.

So he wasn't the one to distribute it. A fault of his own, but Wilson was just a scientist after all. He wasn't the hero in some story, and he didn't want to be.

He was just Wilson, and he made his decisions for himself. No one else could make that choice for him.

Not even Maxwell.

With that, Wilson straightened back up, a last light squeeze of his clawed hands on the other man's shoulders and then he pulled away.

"Goodnight, Maxwell."

There was silence as he opened up his tent, clambering in and exhaling heavy as he rubbed his eyes, fighting a yawn. He should have gone to bed hours ago.

They all should head to bed, he thought solemnly as he undressed and got under the blankets, wiggling about for a comfortable position before relaxing. But Maxwell was making his choice as well, right now, and Wilson was not going to interfere with that.

He closed his eyes, heaving his own sigh, just as heavy, perhaps just as held in for all too long.

All was well, he reminded himself, and that was what Wilson thought of instead of anything else.

All was well.

**Author's Note:**

> I should be working on the Winters Feast fic I have so it could be finished in time for Christmas, but, ah, this one distracted me too much...


End file.
